


Needled

by tardisjournal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (He Thinks. He Might Even Be Right), Addiction, Angst, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Not an Addict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisjournal/pseuds/tardisjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John had insisted on following Sherlock to the bathroom when he went to produce his sample, to ensure that he didn't swap it out for something hidden in his pockets or contaminate it with something nicked from Molly's shelves. The fact that John knew him well enough to know that he was perfectly capable of doing that, but not that he was capable of controlling his narcotics use, was galling.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>John had always believed in Sherlock. Even after Sherlock had confessed to being a fraud and appeared to commit suicide before John's eyes, John had believed in him. But he hadn't believed in him this time. He had betrayed him in front of Molly, Anderson, and Mycroft. Why?</i>
</p><p>Sherlock ruminates in the tub during "His Last Vow".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Drug Den

Operation CAM (where CAM stood, of course, for Charles Augustus Magnussen) was proceeding exceedingly well, Sherlock thought, as he shucked off the baggy trackpants and over-sized blue jacket that comprised his “addict” disguise and climbed into the tub. After a brief, splashy struggle to arrange his limbs into a comfortable position, he leaned against the back of the tub and closed his eyes, the better to savour this, this most perfect of moments. It was the kind of moment he lived for--the moment when he knew the game was, most decidedly, on.  
  
All the players in the game were fully engaged now, and events were unfolding just as he'd anticipated they would. Better than anticipated, in fact, for he hadn't counted on the news of his “relapse” hitting the papers this early. Now that it had, he was spared nearly a week—a week!--of _boring_ waiting around for something to happen.

He had John to thank for that; John to thank for the fact that Magnussen had suddenly decided to return his calls. And not only return them, but to request a meeting for eleven _this very morning_.  
  
Sherlock would have squirmed with excitement if he was the squirming sort. Instead, he slid down the side of the tub until his head was completely submerged, then scrubbed his fingers through his hair, working through the tangles until he was forced to come up for air, gasping and grinning like a madman.  
  
He had been planning to be discovered, in all his dishevelled, pinned-eyed glory, when the police turned up to raid the abandoned building-cum-shooting-gallery in advance of it being torn down next week. But this was so much better.  
  
That John would pursue a runaway neighbour right into the heart of the drug den Sherlock had picked to stage his own “relapse” could not have been predicted, even by him. But the opportunity to stage a very loud, very public row about his drug use had been too good to pass up.  
  
John, in his righteous anger, had been almost too easy to manipulate. Sherlock had replied to his accusations with a calculated blend of hostility and indifference while keeping just out of reach. John had stomped after him, getting angrier by the minute, just as Sherlock had known he would. By the time they had burst out onto the fire escape and jumped to the ground, Sherlock estimated that least twenty people had heard them. That was good. He had only needed one—one opportunistic enough to go to the tabloids with the juicy bit of gossip, that is.  
  
"Celebrity Detective Caught Up in Drugs Bust” was good story; “Celebrity Detective Reamed Out Behind Heroin Den By Best Mate for Shocking Relapse” was an even better one. Too good for one of those witnesses to pass up, just as Sherlock had figured it would be. And of course, they had gone right to the tabloid known for paying the highest rates for this kind of thing--Magnussen's.  
  
The edition hadn’t even had time to have hit the presses yet—hell, the article probably hadn't even been written yet--but that didn't matter. The story, even in nascent form, had already served its purpose. It had given Magnussen the one thing he desired most of all—leverage over a person of note.  
  
Less than an hour of his dramatic departure from the drug den with John, Mary and Billy in tow (and what a merry band they had made—not!) Sherlock had received two phone calls in rapid succession—one from his editorial contact at the tabloid alerting him of his possible impending appearance in its pages, and one from Magnussen's PA (not Janine, this one had been male) informing him that his request for a meeting with that esteemed newspaper magnate had been granted.  
  
 _Eleven._  
  
Sherlock sat up and wiggled his toes delightedly. Then he propped his feet up on the wall, poured a liberal amount of lavender body-wash onto a flannel, and started washing them, paying special attention to the area between his toes. God, they stank. Undoubtedly the result of wearing the same socks for four days, the better to look the part of the pathetic junkie. This morning when he'd put the socks on, they'd felt decidedly crunchy.  
  
He had been tempted to show up at Magnussen's office just as he'd been, filthy and fairly reeking of smack den and B.O., but then had decided that would be overkill. A fallen detective, one so lost to addiction he didn't care about appearances, would be no use to Magnussen. A slipping one, though, desperate to keep his dignity and his reputation intact, who just happened to be the younger brother of the most powerful man in England--well. Sherlock had calculated that Magnussen wouldn't be able to resist that. And he hadn't.  
  
Sherlock wondered if Magnussen would even run the story for which he had undoubtedly paid a pretty penny. There was a distinct possibility that he would not, at least not right away. If he did, however, he'd likely underplay it. As a blind item, perhaps, or a few lines buried in the back of the paper containing just enough information to let Sherlock know that _he knew,_ with the threat of revealing more hanging over every future interaction between them. That's what Magnussen excelled at--getting and using leverage over people. That was his game.  
  
Sherlock's game was stopping people like Magnussen.  
  
Sherlock let his feet drop back to the bottom of the tub, his knobby knees coming up to form two skinny mountain peaks in front of his face. Then he scrunched himself back down until the warm water lapped at the edges of his curls and closed his eyes again.  
  
He could have kissed John when he'd so fortuitously turned, up, he'd been so delighted. As it was, he couldn't even thank him.  
  
Or rather, he could, but he wouldn't. Because John was still cross with him. John. Cross with _him_. And wasn't that ironic, when, given all the events that had transpired this morning, Sherlock was clearly the aggrieved party here.  
  
Oh, John had stopped shouting, finally, and had even thrown Mycroft out of the flat for him, which had been sort of marvellous. He had even seemed to come around a little bit there at the end, just before Sherlock had stalked out to take a bath. But Sherlock could read John well enough to know when John was tucking his feelings away for expedience's sake, and this was one of those times. Sherlock may have won this battle, but he hadn't won the war.  
  
" _This is all for a case.”_  
  
John didn't understand. Really didn't understand. And that should have been alright, there was lots of things that John didn't understand, Sherlock was used to that. John had never been one for seeing the big picture, had he? And yet Sherlock usually found that useful. It was even sort of endearing.  
  
So what was different about this time? Why, when everyone had finally left, did Sherlock suddenly find it intolerable to be in the same room as John? Why had he put off his planned recruitment of John for Operation CAM in favour of an abrupt decision to take a bath?  
  
" _If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called,”_ John had said.  
  
Oh, right.  
  
Sherlock snorted, blowing an annoyed bubble in the water. This kind of thing. Really?  
  
John didn't understand.  
  
Granted, his disguise _had_ been quite convincing, and he _had_ been high on heroin at the time. But still...  
  
" _This is all for a case.”_  
  
John hadn't believed him. Hadn't granted him the tiniest fraction of the benefit of the doubt. It was... disappointing.  
  
Sherlock realised he was shivering. Well. It appeared he was coming down from his high faster than he'd anticipated. He leaned forward and turned the hot water on; let it run until the water around his feet and legs was practically scalding. Better. He leaned back and closed his eyes again. His body's internal temperature-regulation system had gone a bit haywire. Nothing to be concerned about. It was just one of the side-effects of the drugs leaving his system.  
  
As was the fact he was apparently fixating on this issue, when he should have focusing on his upcoming meeting with Magnussen. Well, that too was be expected. Some loss of mental focus, a bit of emotional upheaval—simply the by-products of a chemical imbalance in his brain. The neurons that had been inhibited by the morphine in his system had started pumping out neurotransmitters again and were overdoing it, trying to make up for lost time. Normal. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before. His brain would right itself shortly. He'd be fine.  
  
He _was_ fine.  
  
He'd just thought... that John understood him better than that, that's all. That John, knowing how deliberate and rational Sherlock was about everything he did, and being familiar with Sherlock's wildly unconventional methods of investigation, would have believed him when he said it was for a case. For god's sake, their very first adventure together, Sherlock had willingly got into a cab with a serial killer and let himself be driven off. John, instead of rebuking him, had found the whole thing rather amusing. They'd _laughed_ about it.  
  
Yet for some reason, John thought that Sherlock, after only a month of being on his own, had lost all control and turned into a junkie. It was quite arrogant of him, really. Like he thought Sherlock Holmes was nothing without John Watson.  
  
Yes, Sherlock had been high on heroin when John had found him. Not _pretending_ to be high in order to get in good with the local degenerate population; not taking a kip on the old stained mattress because he happened to be in the neighbourhood and it happened to be _convenient._  
  
So what? It had been the only way to be truly convincing in his role. He'd shot up in front of dozens of witnesses over the past few weeks, as any reporter that came sniffing around for a story would learn. His act was perfect down to the last detail. (It had to be, to be convincing. Junkies tended to be paranoid lot, and dealers even more so.)  
  
But for some reason John couldn't see past the fact that Sherlock was _high on heroin_ to the rest of it. Instead of taking his word for it, and taking him home to get cleaned up and maybe feed him some biscuits (isn't that what you did for junkies? Tried to get them to eat?) John had taken Sherlock to pee in a jar, and what exactly had been the point of that?  
  
What had been the bloody _point_?  
  
It certainly hadn't been for Sherlock's benefit. It must have been for John's. He must have needed confirmation, somehow, of what he was seeing—as if Sherlock's tiny pupils, the faint sheen of perspiration on his face, and the needle-marks on his arm weren't enough. As if Sherlock wouldn't have told him everything if John had just _asked_.  
  
But John hadn't asked. He'd stormed around and yelled a lot, and then Mary had ordered both of them into the car. Granted, Sherlock had managed to turn John's complete misreading of the situation to his advantage, but the rest of it—from the trip to Molly's lab onwards--he could have done without.  
  
Sherlock slammed his feet against the side of the tub, causing water to slosh over the side. Distantly, he heard it plashing on the floor and realised that Mrs. Hudson would be furious with him if it leaked into her bathroom again.  
  
 _Well, she could get in line, couldn't she?_  
  
In retrospect, he should have got right back out of the car when John had informed him where they were going. But he had been eager to leave, to get on with the next phase of his plan, and cabs were not exactly plentiful in that neighbourhood.  
  
It had lead to one the most frustrating mornings of his life.  
  
The trip to the lab had been a complete waste of time and energy, not to mention St Bart's resources. And what had been the purpose, exactly? To teach him a lesson? If so, it had been lost on him. All that Sherlock had taken away from that experience was that another one of his so-called friends didn't understand him either.  
  
Well, that was just great, wasn't it?


	2. The Lab

" _I need to know if he's clean.”_  
  
Sherlock had barely been listening as John, clutching him by the arm as if he was a naughty child who might run off, had explained to Molly what they needed. He had occupied himself instead with the far more interesting task of constructing a three-dimensional representation of Magnussen's office in his mind, based on the floor-plans he'd acquired from the building's construction company. It was very nearly complete.  
  
It had been a little harder to ignore the awkwardness of being made to piss in a specimen jar under the watchful eye of John. John had insisted on following Sherlock to the bathroom when he went to produce his sample, to ensure that he didn't swap it out for something hidden in his pockets or contaminate it with something nicked from Molly's shelves. The fact that John knew him well enough to know that he was perfectly capable of doing that, but not that he was capable of controlling his narcotics use, was _galling._  
  
He still could have managed it, watchful eye or no, if he'd cared to hide his drug use. But he didn't care to hide his drug use, that was the _point._ And didn't that just prove that what he was saying was true? Addicts, after all, were all about secrecy. Sherlock didn't care who knew.  
  
He'd returned to the real world long enough to give John his most resentful glare as he handed over the specimen jar. Then he'd slouched after John, leaned against a counter in the lab, and retreated to Magnussen's office, which was just about ready for some furniture. Or rather, he'd tried to.  
  
Molly's slaps had been impossible to ignore.  
  
The first blow had blasted through the warm, fuzzy cocoon he'd been wrapped in, the one that smoothed out all his jagged emotions and let his mind soar unencumbered. The shock ricocheted through him, tore his cocoon to shreds, and caused all his carefully-constructed mental images to vanish.  
  
The second blow sent him crashing back down into the oh-so-pedestrian here and now, where he was forced to look, really look, at what was in front of him. The harsh lighting of the lab stung his eyes. And, he noted, it did nothing, absolutely nothing, for Molly's complexion. It made her skin look sallow, which clashed with her red, anger-tinged cheeks. Awful.  
  
The third slap was overkill, in his opinion. He brought his hand up to his face. That had really smarted. Clearly, she wanted a reaction out of him. Fine, she'd get one.  
  
" _I'm sorry your engagement is over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring,”_ he'd spat, feeling a childish glee at the hurt that flared in her eyes.  
  
John, ever fancying himself the hero, had jumped in to save her.  
  
“ _Oh please, do relax, this is all for a case,”_ he'd told John, but it had really been directed at them both.  
  
He had been on the verge of saying more, but really, what would have been the point? If John, John who had lived with him and worked with him 24-7 for nearly two years (and who was obviously bored out of his mind living a normal, Sherlock-free lifestyle after only a month) didn't understand what he'd do for a case, why would she?  
  
Sherlock reached for a bottle of shampoo, his favourite Moroccan Argan oil blend, and started applying it. His scalp was especially sensitive in this state, and as he worked the conditioner into his hair, pleasurable tingles danced across the back of his head and down his spine. This soothed him, helped him to relax a little.  
  
He supposed he could understand where John and Molly were coming from. They were both people of science, but in this case their training blinkered them rather than helped them to see clearly. Their knowledge of chemistry and biology gave them a certain confidence that they understood the science of addiction and what the repeated application of drugs did to the body. Sherlock was willing to concede that they probably did. But they were woefully ignorant in the psychological aspects of drug use, the theories of which were much more amorphous, and still evolving.  
  
John had made it clear from day one, when they'd walked in on Lestrade searching Sherlock's flat for drugs, that he conflated drug use with drug addition.  
  
" _Seriously, this guy, a junkie? Have you met him? I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and not find anything you'd call recreational.”_  
  
Obviously his views hadn't evolved any since then.  
  
Given the way Molly was yelling at him about “throwing away his precious gifts”, it was clear she felt the same.  
  
Never mind that the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the mental health professional's bible, had outlined six characteristic features of drug dependence and stated that three of them were necessary for a positive diagnosis--and that Sherlock exhibited only one, "tolerance." Molly and John had taken one look at his test results and jumped to their conclusions anyway.  
  
As for "tolerance", well, he did need a higher dose than he used to to achieve the same results, but that was only to be expected, given his rather extensive experimentation over the years. He also needed more tea to get going in the morning than he used to, but no one seemed concerned about that!  
  
The important thing was, he had no trouble stopping using drugs when the time came to put them aside. He didn't neglect his work in favour of them, either. Quite the opposite. It was his work that he was addicted to. That was what he couldn't function without. Drugs, and cigarettes, were just a tool to help him get by when he didn't have any cases on. How many times had he explained this to John? Too many to count.  
  
Just because a person dabbled in addictive behaviours didn't necessarily mean they were in danger. Plenty of people gambled every year without their friends fearing for their health or their sanity. Why was it so hard for his friends to believe he could use drugs--in doses calculated to the millilitre, naturally, taking his body weight and tolerance level into account—and be safe about it? Why couldn’t they believe that he could use just enough to get himself pleasantly buzzed without affecting his ability to think? As if he'd ever jeopardise _that._  
  
Very hard, apparently.  
  
The irony was, he hadn't even been using them for that purpose this time. The drugs weren’t a substitute for a case. The drugs were _for_ the case.  
  
Sherlock dunked his head again to rinse out the shampoo and wondered if explaining any of this would have made any difference.  
  
Probably not.  
  
As he'd listened to Billy show off, he'd been tempted to point out that his research into drug addiction was far more extensive then theirs, and not all of it had consisted of putting the various substances in his body, as Mycroft had once snidely suggested, either. He knew how drugs could alter the brain chemistry until it couldn't function without them. He knew that every time he used he could be stepping further down the road to the point of no return. But he suspected that for some people that point was a lot further away than for others, if it existed at all.  
  
But then his phone had pinged, and it hadn't mattered anymore.


	3. The Flat

In the cab on the way home, Sherlock had broached the topic of Magnussen. Cautiously, more cautiously than was his wont, he sent out a conversational feeler to see if John was receptive to hearing about the case yet. It was so important the he _get it_. That he realise the magnitude of what Sherlock was dealing with here. But John seemed distracted; far more interested in fiddling with his phone and looking out the window than listening to what Sherlock had to say about some tabloid publisher.  
  
Sherlock had abruptly changed the subject.  
  
He'd wait until they were back at Baker street. Being in the flat again, the place where they'd met with so many clients together, hatched so many schemes together, celebrated so many wins together, would surely have a salubrious effect on John. He'd remember all the fun they used to have, and be more open to hearing what Sherlock had to say.  
  
Then--finally!--Sherlock would describe how Magnussen's publishing business was just a front for his true passion—blackmail. How Magnussen used his worldwide network of contacts to gather information which he in turn used to make powerful and influential people do what he wanted... No, that sounded too tame, too understated for what Magnussen did. What he had done, and would do again.  
  
He somehow had to convince John that every single person he had ever met, seen on telly, or read about in the newspapers was nothing but a slave to Magnussen's will, he was _that_ influential.  
  
Should he offer John some tea first? It might make him more relaxed, more receptive. Come to think of it, he could go for a cuppa himself. The caffeine would help offset the effects of his inevitable comedown.  
  
No, forget that. There was no time to waste. He would start as soon as the entered the flat.  
  
As they pulled up to 221B, Sherlock observed that the knocker had been straightened, and realized that his plans had just been scuttled. Furious, he leaped out of the cab as soon as it stopped, seized by a desperate need to restore the knocker to its rightful position.  
  
As if by doing so, he could somehow prevent his brother from being on the other side of the door.  
  
He knew better, of course.  
  
He did it anyway.  
  
It didn't work.  
  
Sherlock dropped the shampoo bottle on the floor with more force than entirely necessary.  
  
John had phoned Mycroft— _Mycroft!_ As if Sherlock was a wayward child who needed rescuing by his big brother because he was rubbish at managing by himself. It was so _annoying_.  
  
Things had gone downhill in a spectacular fashion after that. Mycroft had called Anderson, of all people (and if John didn't realise what a personal dig that was, Mycroft definitely did). While Sherlock didn't despise Anderson with the white-hot passion that he once did, and didn't blame him for the whole discrediting-him-with-Lestrade-thing (Sherlock didn't hold grudges, grudges were a pointless waste of energy) he still didn't want him in his flat, rifling through his things. And Anderson had brought some people with him, strangers, that were also making entirely too free with his possessions. _Appalling!_  
  
About the only person that hadn't been called 'round to take part in this farce was Donovan. He supposed he ought to be grateful for that. Guess she hadn't joined his “fan club” yet. Or maybe she had just been out of town.  
  
And presiding over it all was his insufferable prat of a brother, looking entirely too pleased with himself, as if all his predictions that Sherlock (poor, stupid, reckless Sherlock!) would come to a bad end had finally come true. He was relishing every moment of this. He did so love being right. Even when he was clearly wrong.  
  
To top it off, Mycroft had then had the gall—the sheer, unmitigated gall--to threaten Sherlock when he realised Sherlock meant to go after Magnussen.  
  
" _You'll find yourself going against me.”_  
  
Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair so hard it stung. He looked down at his hands and realised he'd pulled quite a few strands loose. He stared at them, twined tightly around his fingers like dark seaweed, already starting to cut off his circulation.  
  
Threat? More like an incentive. As if Sherlock hadn't had enough motivation already. Really, Mycroft was lucky Sherlock hadn't snapped his wrist when he'd had him up against the wall. Or his neck.  
  
Outside in the hall, Sherlock heard the murmur of voices. Ah. That would be Janine. He'd meant to prepare John for that eventual meeting, but finding all those people in his flat had been a bit distracting. And then he hadn't felt like it. John only had himself to blame.  
  
The only silver lining to that whole fiasco had been that Mycroft and company hadn't discovered Janine. It had been so, so tempting to let them open that door and discover her, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, in his bed, where she always slept the nights he wasn't home. (It was more comfortable than the sofa, only logical that she do so.) It would have served them right. The shock alone probably would have killed Mycroft. Heart attack. A stroke at the very least. Mycroft's blood pressure, after all, was on the high side--the result of his stressful job and yo-yo dieting.  
  
But if Mycroft had somehow survived the experience, he would have seen through Sherlock's “relationship” pretence immediately, and would have proceeded to blow his carefully-cultivated relationship with Janine sky-high. Sherlock knew he would—it was the quickest way to derail his plans, after all. He could spend months looking and never find an “in” as good as Janine. No, as satisfying as it would have been to score that point in the endless battle of one-upsmanship he and his brother had been engaged in for as long as Sherlock could remember, he couldn't take that chance. So he'd ducked his head and let them think that they had won.  
  
“ _Point made.”_  
  
Sherlock realised that he was clenching his hands so tightly his fingernails were digging into the meat of his palms, making little half-moons there. He forced them open, swirled them around in the water to rinse them off, and let them fall by his sides. Conditioner dripped down his forehead, threatening to get in his eyes. He ignored it.  
  
He had to calm down. He had to focus. He couldn't let his disappointment at John's _betrayal_ affect him like this. And he did blame John for this, he realised. John, not the others. Molly couldn't be expected to know better; she didn't really know him, despite her obvious affection for him. As for Mycroft, well, Mycroft had never expected anything better of Sherlock, _ever,_ so Sherlock expected nothing from him. But John... John should have known better.  
  
It was more than disappointing. It _hurt._  
  
John's complete lack of faith in Sherlock hurt. And if this feeling was a side-effect of the rather spectacular crash-down he was experiencing, well, Sherlock didn't care.  
  
It felt real.  
  
It hurt.  
  
John had always believed in Sherlock. Even after Sherlock had confessed to being a fraud and appeared to commit suicide before John's eyes, John had believed in him. Those two long years he'd thought Sherlock was dead, he'd never lost his faith in Sherlock. But he hadn't believed in him this time. He'd betrayed him in front of Molly and Anderson and Mycroft. Why?

Had marriage changed John that much already? It had only been a month!  
  
Sherlock wasn't... Sherlock wasn't _Harry_ , for heaven's sake.  
  
Ah! Maybe that was John's mistake. Maybe when he'd seen Sherlock lying there in the tangle of old bedclothes he'd really been seeing Harry. Harry who, John had confessed bitterly to Sherlock one night, changed her drink of choice often more than most people changed their underwear--from beer to vodka to whisky to wine and then back to beer again--in an effort to consume less, but always wound up just as pissed by the end of the night. Harry, who drank when times were good to celebrate, and drank when times were bad to medicate. And every time in between.  
  
Sherlock dunked his head again and shook it vigorously to rinse out the conditioner, then came up and reached for a towel.  
  
Sherlock was _nothing_ like Harry. He didn't need doctoring. He didn't need some half-arsed attempt at an intervention. He didn't need _saving._  
  
What Sherlock needed was someone to believe in him, to see that any sacrifice--his reputation, his flirting with addiction, his very life--was worth it for this case.  
  
Well, Sherlock would just have to convince John, that's all. That Sherlock was in complete control of his faculties. And that this case was _worth it_.  
  
He'd make John understand what a shark Magnussen really was. He'd get him emotionally invested in the cause. He'd give John a whole lot of people to save—everyone in the western world should do for start! They'd take Magnussen down together, and then John would realise that Sherlock had been right the whole time. John would look at Sherlock with admiration—even awe--again.  
  
Maybe along the way he would utter some of those accolades that were so overused they barely meant anything--”amazing”, “awesome”--yet still made a warm glow flare in Sherlock's chest every time.  
  
And when they were done, and Magnussen was safely locked away, things would go back to the way they were before, only better. Because the world would have one less shark in it, and John would realise just how much he _missed this_. Missed working with Sherlock. He'd pop round more often than he had done, help with a case here and there. (Mary wouldn't mind. She was a good egg, after all.) Sherlock would even leave John's chair in the living room. He'd gladly give up his view of the kitchen for that.  
  
It would be good to have a colleague again.  
  
It would be good to have a friend.

 

\---- ---- ---- ----

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [hc_bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) February Amnesty Challenge. Prompts used: runaways, side effects, slaves, wild card (substance addiction).


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